heart like yours (jennifer jareau)

2. seven

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"i've become passive. i don't invent, i don't yearn. i manage, i cope." - susan sontag

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Delilah stood in the bullpen of the local PD, leaning against the desk JJ was sat at with a cup of coffee in her hands. They were silent, watching their unsub's lawyer lead him out of the interrogation room. The other profilers followed out after him, Elle watching him walk past her from her spot in the kitchen with a pale face.

She turned, storming over to Hotch.

"You're letting him walk?" Elle said loudly.

"Back off, Elle," Derek said.

"You don't know what he's done," Elle said.

"The only reason he's walking is because you panicked," Hotch said.

"I'm supposed to believe that you've got my back?" Elle scoffed.

"What are you saying to me?" Hotch asked.

"The last time you sent me home, Hotch, it got me shot," Elle said.

"Walk with me, right now," Gideon grabbed Elle's arm, leading her away and into an office.

Delilah watched Hotch, studying how upset he was. Delilah had wanted to say I told you so. She knew things would end badly, but nobody listened. Yet, the look on Hotch's face was like a blow to the stomach. He knew he'd messed up letting her do this. He knew how Elle really felt about him, now, too.

Delilah wouldn't add any pain onto his shoulders. Not now.

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Delilah sat on the balcony of their hotel, a cigarette burning between her fingers. She was wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, cold in the September air. The balcony door was closed, JJ talking to Spencer in his room about what Elle had done.

Hotch and Gideon had rushed out half an hour ago. Elle had shot the unsub and killed him. They'd gone to the scene to find out why. And Delilah had walked herself to the corner store, purchased a carton of cigarettes and a lighter, and had taken herself to the balcony on her room to smoke her thoughts away.

It wasn't working, of course. Delilah knew what had probably gone down. Elle had been furious at him walking. She would've gone to his address and waited for him, shot him, and would tell the officers responding that it was self defence. Everybody would be too glad the rapist was off the street that she probably would be seen as a hero for what she did, no matter the fact that she had, technically, murdered him.

Delilah agreed that he deserved it. She probably would've done the same, if she'd been upset enough that her panic had caused the man to walk. But she had warned them about something bad happening. If she had played the role, she wouldn't have panicked because she wouldn't be triggered like Elle was. The rapist would still be alive, but they'd have him in jail to pay for what he did.

Delilah couldn't decide whether jail or death was a better punishment for the rapist. Ideally, he would suffer in jail for years, being beaten by his fellow inmates for his sick perverted nature. Death was too quick. He didn't suffer. But death ended the suffering of his victims. They could move on completely, now. Or try to, at least.

She didn't know what was worse, and she didn't want to think about it. She didn't want any of this to have happened, but it had happened, and now they had to live through the aftermath.